


Godzilla Ramen

by slothesaurus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to Depression, their friendship is too real i s2g
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7517357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothesaurus/pseuds/slothesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways to be there. Countless ways to show it, give it in a way that'll be a secret, just between two friends. Something warm and safe that tells them, "I'm here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Godzilla Ramen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArturoSavinni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArturoSavinni/gifts).



> Life's been rougher than before. Rough life, tough life, etc. Haven't been able to write as much but then my darling [arturosavinni](http://arturosavinni.tumblr.com) was feeling down so I braved the depths of my mind to make her this.
> 
> 11,000 miles away and If I could I'd make you all the ramen in the world until you're warm to the bones, my dear friend. Hang in there. <3

The door cracks open, buttery light from the corridor slowly melting into the room. It hits nothing but carpet, thick tatami that’s been freshly cleaned.

Tooru feels a sting of defeat staring at it, mind flashing with the war-torn image of the state he left his own room in. He lets his eyes adjust, finding the familiar silhouette of a small dustpan and broom. It’s the set he gave Hajime himself, tiny little spikes superglued onto the spine of the small broom evident even in the darkness. The dustpan’s mouth had also been fashioned into a set of sharp, carnivorous teeth.

That was years ago, though.

Tooru huffs and slips into the room, nudging the door shut with his hip. The bowls on the tray in his hands clink faintly, curved covers upsetting the plastic chopsticks set above them. He really should have just left them on the tray instead. 

There’s something on the bed laid flush against the room’s window, stirring sluggishly beneath fluffy blankets. The blinds are shut, harsh wind and rain from the storm splattering against the glass, speckling the little stripes of dim light from the outside. Unlike Tooru’s own room where he prefers a futon in the middle, Hajime’s room hosts a low wooden platform underneath a firm mattress. He’d once said it was just to be sure his allergies didn’t act up if the room got too dusty.

Tooru shuffles over, tiptoeing with a heavy tray in front of him. He lays the tray down on the bedframe’s built in sidetable, nudging Hajime’s phone up higher on the surface to make room. The chopsticks jiggle on their perches, making another soft clink that coaxes a scrunched up nose from under the pillow.

“Ya-ho, I found an Iwa-chan!” Tooru chirps as he settles down to sit beside the bed, angled towards the large, fluffy lump and the bowls on the tray.

Hajime’s nose scrunches even further, exposed mouth a soft line. It’s not a smile or a scowl, lips resting neutral and...tired.

He doesn’t say anything either.

These weary silences, unlike the vibrancy of Hajime’s heated sermons or frustrated doting, are still just as familiar to Tooru.

He swipes the chopsticks off of both bowls, plucking the covers off and using them as makeshift fans to dance with. “The great and benevolent Oikawa-san has made you his famous Godzilla ramen!”

“No need for your gratitude, Iwa-chan. The great Oikawa-san is just that kind.” Tooru eases out a dramatic and confident laugh, fanning himself with one ceramic cover and daintily covering half his face with the other.

The famous Godzilla ramen, in all honesty, is a ridiculously happy accident. Tooru has never been the worst cook, but his proclivity for experimenting in the kitchen hasn’t earned him any trust with most hungry friends and family. His Godzilla ramen is a surprising triumph amidst a sea of stomach aches shared with people who love him more than they love their regular bowel movements.

The reality of it is, the ramen is simply a garlic tonkotsu broth with matcha powder, chestnuts, soft cheese, and fried tofu. It looks appetizing in how alien it is. A bright, earthy green plated with crispy tofu cubes, slices of goat cheese and crumbled chestnuts sprinkled on top.

It’s delicious, and while that is a point of pride, what really makes Tooru puff up and stand tall over it is that it’s become one of Hajime’s favorites.

Tooru sits there, a pretend Bon festival dancer performing for an audience that’s still yet to see him. He lowers the lids after a minute and sets them aside, taking his own bowl and using it to warm his hands. He uses his chopsticks to tug the rest of the blanket off of Hajime’s face.

Hajime blinks and looks at him, breathes out a deep sigh. Tooru’s familiar with that sound too.

He claps his hands together, fingers holding the chopsticks in place, and says his thanks.

Tooru eats slowly, glancing occasionally at Hajime. He hasn’t burrowed back into the blankets, which he knows is the other boy’s way of showing he’s paying attention. He talks about cooking the ramen, how Hajime’s dad offered his assistance but kept reminding Tooru to  _ ‘please be careful with those knives, your fingers’ _ or to  _ ‘stand clear of the flames, Tooru-kun, don’t get burned, don’t get burned--THE HOT WATER, TOORU-KUN’. _ He talks about how he had to send Ji-san into timeout at the kotatsu, sentenced to sip tea and read his dad-appropriate books while Tooru finished.

“Honestly, Iwa-chan,” Tooru laments between slurps of wonderfully firm buckwheat noodles, “He’s such a doter, just like his son.”

A soft huff wafts from the covers, immediately drawing Tooru’s eyes to Hajime’s face. He still looks tired, but the faint curve of his lips is brilliant in the darkness.

Tooru snorts, almost sending broth up his nose and feeling the burn at the back of his throat. “D-don’t try to deny it, Iwa-chan. All those wrinkles on your forehead are proof enough.”

He looks away and pounds at his chest, coughing several times to get rid of the sting

“Tooru.” Hajime’s voice is a rough scratch of lead on paper, notes and doodles passed between two kids during classes; fondness in a puzzle for only Tooru to figure out.

Tooru whips his head back to Hajime’s face. The slight rise of his brows, the crinkle at the corner of his fern green eyes, the not smile and not scrunch of his nose.

This look is familiar as well.

Hajime sits up slowly, the blanket over his head sliding to his shoulders. He reaches for the untouched bowl next to him, inhaling the fresh, warm scent, and bows his head.

“Thanks for the meal.”

Tooru shrugs, conjuring his happy beam into something gaudier, wider and more obnoxious. “The great Oikawa-san is always this kind.”

**Author's Note:**

> You kids are worth a bowl of goodness and don't you forget it.


End file.
